The Dressing Down
by Spikesgirl58
Summary: Just what made that spot on the carpet in Waverly's office?  It's making Napoleon crazy.  Warning - playful slash, so adults only please


The dressing down, they'd both expected. Waverly would have been remiss if he'd let their performance go uncorrected. They'd handled the affair with all the finesse of a porcupine in a balloon factory. Waverly had a right to his anger, but it didn't mean that either man had to like it.

"What did you think you were proving, Mr. Solo?"

"I wasn't, sir, thinking." Napoleon's eyes never left the carpet, his eyes focused upon a small stain. His mind began to wonder what had caused it. A spilled drink, a fumbled bit of food, everything about Waverly's office was perfect, except for that little stain… the one imperfection.

"That was obvious, Mr. Solo. I ask you, what is it going to take to keep your attention off the young women, Mr. Solo?"

_Make Illya gay_ almost slipped from his mouth, but he clamped his jaw firmly shut. For his part, Illya leaned on a chair, his arms crossed, looking both chagrined and repentant, a look Illya had probably honed in his days of service to the Mighty Russian Bear. Blond hair flopped forward and Napoleon longed to brush it back, tangle his fingers in it, use to pull Illya's head back and attack his neck.

_Get a hold of yourself, Solo; you're acting like a lovesick teenager. Look at Illya. He doesn't give two licks about you._

Waverly was giving Illya a ration now and the Russian met their boss's glare dead on. Napoleon was only half aware of the words being exchanged. He didn't quite dare to take his eyes off that stain, lest he start daydreaming about the more tempting aspects of his partner. It wouldn't do to have to explain away an erection during a lecture, so instead he concentrated upon his friend, Mr. Spot. What had caused that? More importantly, why hadn't Waverly ever had it taken care of?

Waverly's voice snapped Napoleon back into the here and now. "Do you understand me, Mr. Kuryakin? Fix the problem."

"Yes, sir." Illya's voice sounded odd and Napoleon's head bobbed in his direction. There were two small red spots on Illya's cheeks and the man's body told of one very tightly under control. Illya's arms were crossed over his chest and his fingers were digging into one of his biceps with bruising strength.

_Shame I missed it. Waverly apparently hit one of Illya's buttons to garner that look._

"And you, Mr. Solo? Do you understand me?" Waverly swung back to him and Napoleon nodded, doing his best to look like a schoolboy who had gotten caught teasing the little girls.

"Ah… yes, sir, absolutely." Illya rolled his eyes and Napoleon sighed. He could fool his boss, but never his partner.

"Then see to it." Waverly picked up a folder and stuffed it into a briefcase. "I am due at the United Nations in a few minutes. I shall be gone approximately two hours. Have it sorted out, gentlemen, or find another arrangement that will equitably provide a solution." He closed the case with a sharp _snap _and walked from the room, closing the door behind him.

"That went well, don't you think?" Napoleon's attempt at humor fell flat as Illya glared at him.

"Weren't you even listening, Napoleon?"

"Of course," Napoleon said brightly and then his smiled faded. "Not a word."

"What was it about Miss Cassidy that fascinated you so much?"

Napoleon blinked, startled by the change in topic. "Uh… her hair… I guess."

Illya frowned in thought. "Describe it."

"Well, it's a bit like yours, I suppose. Straight and blonde, with bangs. It looked so soft and silky."

Illya titled his head to one side and his hair moved with the movement, almost as if he was tempting Napoleon to reach out to it. "What else?"

"Her eyes… they were blue, really blue." Napoleon frowned now. "Like yours." The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he got about it. Miss Cassidy really did look like Illya… just as Mara had. Both were scientists and both wore the same style of black frame glasses he and his fellow soldiers used to call _Birth Control Glasses_ that were currently perched on Illya's nose.

Napoleon suddenly had a renewed interest in that spot on Waverly's rug. He stared at it now, hoping beyond hope that it would bring him some sort of answer.

Illya, on the other hand, had finally launched himself off the chair he'd been leaning against and was approaching him, Napoleon could see his feet as they approached the black shoes no longer shiny but now mud streaked and scuffed. Napoleon didn't want to, but his eyes strayed from the spot to travel up Illya's black encased legs, the fabric just tight enough to hint what might be hidden within.

"Just like mine." Napoleon jumped from Illya's thighs to his face. Illya had pulled the glasses off and was practically nose to nose with his partner. Napoleon could smell him, an oddly comforting mixture of soap and sweat. They _had_ just come from the field after all, with no time to tidy up.

"Ah… uh, huh…" Napoleon's eye lids lowered as he felt Illya's breath against his skin. His partner really was very, very close.

"It is Mr. Waverly's opinion that you have a certain… infatuation with me. Is this true, Napoleon?"

"Infatuation?"

"Yes, you, with me. He feels you are deliberately seeking out the company of women who resemble me in some small way as a sort of stop gap, thus leaving yourself open to attack. He's charged us with either figuring out a way to stop this or he's going to reassign us. You are a good partner, Napoleon, and you know there is nothing I wouldn't do to help you… but." Illya was so close now, barely a kiss's breadth away, studying him intently, too intently. "I don't know what to do… tell me what you need."

"I can't." Napoleon's penis disagreed, but what did it know? _You keep out of this!_ he ordered. This time, like all the others, it chose not to listen.

"Why?"

It would be so easy to reach out and cup Illya's cheek and find out if what some of the women said around the water cooler about the Russian's ability to kiss. Napoleon knew he should been annoyed the first time he heard that, instead he was intrigued and, yes, damn it, infatuated. He had to stop this - It wasn't fair to Illya or their partnership.

"You'd hate me for it and I don't want that. I'll… fix it, Illya, I swear." He took a step back.

"How?" Illya took a step forward.

"I'll stop dating." He took another step back, which Illya parroted by moving forward, keeping the distance between them nearly nonexistent.

"You could no more do that than stop breathing."

"Then I'll stop having sex." _That got his dick's attention._ Napoleon could swear he heard a whimper from within his trousers.

"Also equally unlikely." Illya was so very close now and Napoleon's skin fairly tingled at his nearness. "Perhaps another solution would be more agreeable."

Illya grabbed Napoleon's lapels and pulled him into a kiss. Napoleon's last truly rational thought was that the women huddled around the water cooler weren't just whistling _Dixie._

Napoleon blew out a mouthful of air and propped himself up on his elbows. He had rug burn on his elbows, his knees, and his ass, and he couldn't be happier about it. "That was… was… was…" It would seem that his ability to articulate had left his body about the same time he'd climaxed… for the third time.

"It certainly was." Illya didn't move from his prone position beside his partner, his chest glistening with their combined sweat. "All that practicing with women has had an ample effect upon your techniques."

"Well, that and yoga," Napoleon said and reached over to Illya to kiss him once again, his mouth gentle now, his fire momentarily doused. "It encourages great flexibility and breath control." He flopped back and the fact that both men were lying naked on Waverly's office rug suddenly seemed very funny to Napoleon.

He started to laugh and as he did, his elbow knocked over the can of gun oil that they'd used to 'ease' the way. Napoleon's ass was still tingling from the results. Instantly, his hand snaked out to upright it, but a small bit got on the carpet.

"That's rotten luck," Illya muttered, still not moving. "Once you get that on carpeting it never comes out." He suddenly sat up, wincing, and picked up his shirt, pulling it on. Directly below it was the small stain Napoleon had been previously studying. Illya leaned over to snatch up his tie and draped it around his neck. "Case in point." He looked around and finally found his socks on the couch.

"What are you talking about?" Napoleon looked down at the stain and frowned. "And just what are you suggesting?" Illya got to his feet and began to pull on his underwear. "Illya, what do you mean?"

Illya merely pulled on his pants and zipped them closed, then reached for his shoulder holster. "You need to hurry, Napoleon, Mr. Waverly will be back any time now. It wouldn't do to have him find us… well, you, like this." Illya stepped into his shoes and pulled on his jacket. It was as if the last hour of heated sex had never even occurred. Napoleon's back and other tender parts of his anatomy argued that though.

"I'm not moving until you tell me what you mean."

"Do you think you were the first agent to go hunting for a substitute instead of acknowledging what was right in front of you? I have to hand it to Mr. Waverly though. He's a sly old fox. I never thought this would work a second time."

"What?" Napoleon paused as he hurriedly dressed. "What do you mean, a second time?"

Illya merely glanced over at Napoleon and smiled slightly, tapped his nose with a forefinger, then ducked out the office door.

"Illya? ILLYA!"

Napoleon zipped his pants closed, made sure that everything was in order, then headed out of Waverly's office. At the end of the hall, the old man was just getting off the elevator.

"Mr. Solo." He studied the man intently and apparently liked what he saw. "Your problem has been addressed?"

"Ah…yes, sir, in a manner of speaking."

"That young man is far too clever for his own good, Mr. Solo. It would behoove you to take him in hand and temper his impulses."

Napoleon's ass already ached from his attempt at tempering Illya's impulses. Hell, he'd be lucky if he'd be able to sleep tonight from all the… tempering.

"Sir, about that… um… others?"

"Other what, Mr. Solo? I don't know what you're talking about." The old man's eyes said different, but they also spoke of harsh consequences if Napoleon didn't stop pushing his luck.

"Nothing, sir, my mistake." Napoleon hurried down the hall and paused. Would Illya head back down to their office? The labs? Napoleon's stomach gurgled and he smiled. He knew absolutely without a question where Illya would head.

Sure enough Illya had claimed a table in a back corner of the canteen and was working his way steadily through a pile of food that would have dwarfed Mount Everest. In fact, if Napoleon squinted really hard, he could almost make out a climbing expedition going up the side of Illya's mound of mashed potatoes.

He paused at the urn to draw himself some coffee and carried it over to the table. Illya flicked his eyes up and then back down when he saw who it was, then he returned to his assault. Napoleon felt a little small ball of heat make its way from his belly to his face and he ran a finger around his collar. If it had been someone else, Napoleon would have murmured, "Is it hot in here or is it just you?" That wouldn't fly with his partner.

Instead he sat down and set his coffee in front of him, as if he was about to make an offering to some unnamed god.

"Is there trouble?" Illya kept his voice low, more out of habit than necessity. No one in the canteen was paying the least bit of attention to him.

"No, I caught wind that there was some extraordinary display of gluttony down here and wanted to see if for myself." Truth be known, Napoleon wished he could eat the way Illya did, but his metabolism didn't run as hot and furious as his partner's did. If he ate like that for just a few days, he'd not be able to even fit into his most forgiving suit.

"I'm hungry. I worked up an appetite." Illya ate steadily, as if he was afraid the plate would suddenly be pulled from him. Agents who tarried over their food often went hungry, even in the relative security of HQ.

"What did you mean about… what you said?" Napoleon watched heads turn, almost undetectable to anyone other than a Section Two, in his direction.

"About what? We spoke of many things."

"In Waverly's office."

"About the mission? About your inability to let a beautiful woman pass by unmolested –"

"I didn't molest anyone. I know what 'no' means."

Illya grunted. "I wondered…" He'd finished his pasty and moved on to what looked to be veal parmesan. "Then we have a new assignment?" Either Illya had chosen to play dumb or he really was clueless.

"I'm taking about… ah… spillage… onto carpets."

"Wotcher, lads." Mark sat down and slid his own tray onto the table. "What's wrong, Napoleon? You look a bit barmpotted."

"Jackanory," Illya muttered, turning his plate to have better access to his fried chicken.

"What? You playing Jack the lad with our boss?" Mark asked, as he cut into his steak and kidney pie. "Mr. Kuryakin, you wouldn't be covering up the fact that you are cabbaging, would you?"

"Mark!" Several heads looked in the direction of their table and Mark glanced around, as if he was being attacked.

"What?"

"He's not… cabbaging… anyone."

"What?" Mark looked totally perplexed and Illya started to chuckle.

"Napoleon, cabbaging means wasting time doing nothing. And no, Mark, I am eating. Napoleon is cabbaging."

"Oh…" Napoleon sighed. "I wish you two would speak English."

"We were," Illya paused, then added. "It's not our fault you Americans never bothered to learn it."

"Ha ha…" Napoleon started to sip his coffee. It was hot and bitter and perfect. Just what he needed to take his mind off…

"I noticed there's a new stain on Waverly's rug. Anyone we know?" Mark popped a forkful of pie into his mouth and chewed. Napoleon tried to keep from choking on his mouthful of coffee.

"Is there?" Illya hunched his shoulders. "I suppose if it worked once…"

Mark swallowed. "Second time's the charm? That's assuming everyone else has been as clumsy as… " Mark paused as Napoleon swallowed and gasped. "Napoleon, old man, are you okay?"

"Went down the wrong way," he managed between coughs.

"Or something did," Illya murmured, pushing away his empty plate and looking back at the line.

"You can't still be hungry?" Mark patted Napoleon on the back.

One side of Illya's mouth crept up into a smile. "I worked up an appetite this morning."

"Busy pounding the mats were you?"

"Excuse me." Napoleon stood and walked hurriedly from the canteen and back to the sanctuary of his office. It had been a mistake. He knew that now. He never should have… reacted. He took off his jacket and hung it on a hanger that dangled from the hat stand, then stretched out on the couch. He just needed to get his thoughts together before attempting to glean more information from his reticent partner.

He closed his eyes and let his mind empty. He heard the door open, but he didn't move. Only Illya would enter without knocking.

"Surely you realize he doesn't know anything."

"You could have fooled me the way, the two of you were going on."

"Did you ever stop to think that it is all just a story that is told to the junior agents to keep them entertained?"

"A story?"

"Surely you heard it? It made the rounds at Survival School and I'm afraid I had some rather uncharitable thoughts about people who would… dally when they should be concentrating upon their mission."

Napoleon opened his eyes and sat up. "I never heard anything like that in Survival School."

"Hmm, that would mean it started between the time you and I attended. The way it was presented made it sound as if it was… what is your phrase? Older than the hills?"

Napoleon patted the couch beside him. "And you have all of ten seconds to tell me or…"

"Or you will… beat?… it out of me?" Illya grinned, but he sat and rested his elbows upon his knees. "Where should I begin?"

"At the beginning, of course."

"I don't believe a word of it," Napoleon muttered five minutes later. He was leaning back against the couch cushion, again fighting the urge to touch Illya's hair "Waverly and -"

"As I said, it could merely be a cautionary tale created by someone who had a bit too much time on his hands during a debriefing."

"Or it could be… fact. I mean, ours is…"

"Napoleon, I would never lower myself to believe that Mr. Waverly would have to resort to such antics to secure his position. What occurred between us, I would prefer to think of that as a solitary revelation of sorts."

"But he is just a man."

"Again, mere rumors." Illya gestured to their carpet, speckled with spots of various natures. "All of those have a completely innocent story behind them. There is nothing sordid about any of them."

"For the moment." Napoleon took the opportunity to reach out and rest a hand on Illya's arm. "What of us?"

"What of us, Napoleon?"

"Where do we go from here?" He squeezed the unrelenting muscle. "What do we do now?"

"As we have always done, exactly what is asked of us."

Napoleon withdrew his hand slowly. "And nothing more?"

"You forced the issue with Mr. Waverly this morning. You were becoming too distracted in the field. He needed to put an end to it, one way or the other."

"And knowing what we did, how you made me feel – that's not going to be a distraction for you now?"

"Not a distraction, Napoleon, I prefer to think of it more as a reward for a successfully completed mission. I look forward to many more such hours of hands-on… debriefing."

A smug little smile appeared on Napoleon's lips. "I can certainly agree with that. Every agent can use more… debriefing."

"And there are still a few of the finer points from our last mission that I don't quite understand." Illya's voice had gone soft around the edges.

"More debriefing?"

"Much more… debriefing."


End file.
